Chapter 21

21

The sound of my phone buzzing violently on the nightstand wakes me up. The bluish glare of the screen is blinding in the complete darkness of my bedroom and I wince, fumbling as I yank the charger out of my phone and then squint at the screen. My stomach gives a nervous flip at the thought that it's Dad or Gina, that something's horribly wrong—because obviously, something has to be horribly wrong to call at almost three o'clock on a Saturday morning, and who else would be calling me?

My brain struggles to understand that the name on the screen isn't my dad's, or my stepmom's, but Lloyd's.

Why is Lloyd calling me?

It goes to voicemail, and as the missed call notification appears on the screen I see a string of messages from him. I only get a glance at them long enough to understand that he's been drunk texting me before he's calling again. This time, I answer.

My voice is thick with sleep when I say, "Hello?"

It sounds like I don't know who it is. I probably should've just gone with asking, What's wrong? After what happened at the party earlier I sort of assumed we'd go back to ignoring each other around the office next week, but here he is—ranting down the phone to me in the middle of the night.

"You don't get to do stuff like that," he snaps, agitated—but there's a sadness that takes some of the edge off his anger and makes his voice wobble just a little. "You know? You can't kiss me like that— look at me like that, say it doesn't mean anything, and then go out with Monty. Fucking Monty. "

"What?"

"Let me guess—that didn't mean anything either, right?" He scoffs, and I still have no idea what he's talking about. There's a muffled electronic beep coming from his end of the line. "Somehow, I'm not buying it. What floor are you on? Six?"

I sit bolt upright, holding the phone tight to my ear, eyes wide as my room comes into focus, a landscape of familiar shadows.

"Fletcher. Please tell me you're not in the building right now."

"Six sounds right," he says, mostly to himself.

I'm on the eighth floor, but Burnley and Freya's apartment is on the sixth. God, what if Lloyd hammers on their door? What if they answer, and he says he's looking for me? There's no way either of them would keep that a secret.

"I'm on eight," I correct him, already hurtling out of my bed to meet him outside.

I tiptoe past the others' bedrooms and then ease the front door open as quickly as I dare, praying they don't hear the lock click shut after me. I allow myself a small moment of relief when I find I've gotten there before Lloyd: I had a horrible feeling I'd come out to find him knocking on random doors looking for me, and worst-case scenario, waking up Tasha just down the hall.

The lift doors open a moment later and Lloyd strides out, faltering to a stop when he sees me. He's obviously been out all night—there's dirt on one knee of his jeans like he's fallen, and his T-shirt is rumpled, his dark hair tousled. He doesn't seem to notice what kind of state I'm in: barefoot and in a mismatched pair of pajama shorts and a too-big freshers' week T-shirt I got on a rare night out, my french braids mussed by sleep.

For a moment, he stands there, and I hear his breath hitch, see the misery on his face, his lips parted and his gaze plaintive—pleading.

Then he steels himself before approaching me; the dim automatic lights in the hallway cast his face in shadow, and his eyes are so dark I can hardly see the green of them.

"Fletcher," I tell him. "You can't just show up here like this."

"Tell me," he demands, chin jutting out. "Tell me it didn't mean anything when we kissed."

There's a steadiness and determination to him that makes me realize he isn't here in a drunken stupor—however tipsy he might have been when he texted me earlier. It's plain old emotion clouding his judgment now.

And it makes him loud in the otherwise total silence of the hallway, his voice reverberating off the walls. I immediately panic that it'll wake the others and hiss, "Keep it down!"

It's obviously not what he was hoping to hear because his face crumples. He comes even closer, right into my personal space.

"Tell me," he insists again, voice rough and heated. "And I'll go. I'll let it go, and we'll just keep things professional around the office, and we can pretend none of it ever happened. That first night, the kiss earlier…That's what you want, isn't it?"

Yes, that's what I want. That's exactly why I spent this whole week before the party avoiding you, pushing you away, and…

And how can I tell him it didn't mean anything?

If that was truly the case, things wouldn't have gotten so messy. I would've been able to stay away from him, to tuck the memory of that first night into a distant corner of my mind and not let it bother me when I saw him around the office. If it didn't mean anything, we might've even become good friends this summer, late-night cake and coffees a regular occurrence.

How can I tell him that it meant… everything ?

I hold Lloyd's gaze and swallow the lump in my throat. His eyes burn, his jaw tightens, although he seems apprehensive now more than anything else, and when my lips part, I hear him catch his breath.

Pretending it didn't mean anything, that nothing ever happened between us…Is that what I want?

No, it's not.

Words fail me, though, and I can only shake my head in answer.

Slowly, he lifts his hand to cup my cheek, his touch searing into my skin and making me lean into him until my chest brushes against his; he's close enough that I feel the length of his erection pressing into my hip, and heat rushes to the pit of my stomach. The thumb he drags over my lower lip sends a shiver through me. I'm both alive and dreaming, both brought to life by his touch and made so delirious by it that it surely can't be real.

Finally, I manage to say something.

"Please," I whisper, desperate for him to touch me—to kiss me. For more.

Lloyd lowers his head and kisses the sensitive skin of my throat, just below my ear, that light touch alone electric enough to pull a small, needy sound from me, make my back arch in an attempt to get even closer to him.

"What about your date?" he murmurs into my ear—and I remember his bizarre rambling on the phone and push him away slightly.

"What date? What are you talking about?"

"With Monty. I saw the two of you together, at the party. He invited you to dinner."

Oh my God. I'd laugh, if every nerve ending in my body weren't on edge, willing Lloyd to kiss me again. "We all went to dinner. That wasn't a date. He was just—being a friend. Making sure I was okay."

Lloyd's eyes glaze over as he realizes he completely misread the situation. I can't even find it in me to tease him for being jealous. No wonder he was so upset, or really believed our kiss meant so little to me.

There's a beat, and I find my hands fisting Lloyd's T-shirt like I can anchor him, suddenly worried that he'll leave.

But then his lips crash down on mine, demanding and relentless, and I moan into his mouth, something taut unspooling in the pit of my chest. Lloyd presses his hips hard against mine, sending a thrill of want through me. My hands move from his T-shirt to cord through his hair, grasp his shoulders, follow the planes of them and travel down his back. Lloyd's hand, which had been at my waist, travels underneath the hem of my T-shirt and strokes up past the waistband of my pajama shorts to settle at my ribs, then hesitates as if waiting for permission to go two inches higher to my bare breast.

When I slept with my ex-boyfriend, there was a clumsy restraint to it, awkward exchanged looks as we each worried we weren't doing it right somehow, or that it wasn't good enough. And it was good enough, I always thought.

It pales in comparison to what I feel with Lloyd right now, even with both of us fully clothed. It burns through me, ignites every nerve in my body. I'm hyperaware of everywhere he's touching me and everywhere he hasn't yet but that I want him to. I don't worry about where to put my hands or what my tongue is doing as we kiss, and it doesn't feel awkward to whisper, "Let's go inside." And it feels so completely natural to unlock the door, to take his hand, and lead him quietly inside the apartment, to my bedroom.

Lloyd takes a seat on the bed, and I look at the small, gentle tilt of his smile as he reaches out to draw me nearer, the earnest openness in his eyes as they glow almost catlike in the darkness of my room, and I know that whatever this is, he feels it, too. It means something to him, the way it does to me.

So I let him take my arms and pull me in to stand between his legs, relaxing at the feel of his hands firm on my hips, the gentle arc his thumb traces on one. He holds my gaze for a moment longer, then tugs me even closer, which makes me stumble and catch his shoulders for balance. A quiet laugh rumbles through him, but I don't feel embarrassed.

It's impossible to be embarrassed with Lloyd. It feels like he already knows the best and worst of me.

I want to know all of him.

I start to use my hold on his shoulders to make him lean back so I can get on the bed with him, kiss him again, take it further than we could in the hallway. Lloyd resists, though, glancing up and giving me a cheeky attempt at a reproachful look, one that makes my heart skitter and my pulse pick up, and makes me curious enough to wait to see what he wants to do.

Lloyd starts with my T-shirt, finding his way underneath it once more, with both hands this time, pushing it up and letting me pull it over my head. I drop it to the floor, my breathing shallow as his fingers trace a path over my stomach and up to my breasts, his lips following with soft, open-mouthed kisses. I arch into his touch, and gasp when his tongue flicks over my nipple. My eyes flutter shut and I lean more heavily on him, losing myself in the sensation.

His hands skim lower, thumbs hooking my pajama shorts and underwear before he takes them off me. He draws back slightly to look, to pay attention as his hands roam along my thighs, my arse, my hips, with a reverence that feels like worship.

And somehow, it's still not enough.

"Fuck, Annalise," he mutters, and I bring one knee up onto the bed, half straddling him as I fumble with his T-shirt. I give up and focus instead on palming the bulge in the front of his jeans, excitement sparking through my veins when a groan stutters out of him and his hands tighten on my legs, his fingers biting into my flesh.

There's no resistance this time when I press against Lloyd's shoulders for him to lie back so I can lower myself with him and kiss him. His hands are everywhere, and his teeth catch my lip like they did when we kissed at the party, and yet nothing like it. This is hungry, not playful, but I like it. He slips a hand between my thighs, snatching the air from my lungs, and I feel his lips curve into a smile against my collarbone.

His other hand toys with my breast and his lips find mine again, his stroking mine as my hips rock helplessly, needily, against his fingers.

It's still not enough. I want to feel the heat of his skin flush against mine, the weight of his body wrapped up with mine. I want to see him come undone; I need to hear him moan and say my name like that again.

I start to move off him so I can undo his jeans, finally get him out of his T-shirt, but Lloyd grabs my hips to hold me in place, a smirk on his lips and a challenge in his eyes when I try to wriggle away again—and then buck against him, when his thumb finds a particularly sensitive spot. Like he's almost daring me. Part of me is tempted to see what would happen if I push him, see what delicious way he'd find to tease me, but his thumb circles again and I lose the battle, my back arching and a moan catching in my throat as I remember the need to be quiet, to not wake up my roommates.

Lloyd kisses me again, tenderly this time, and I'm pliant as he turns us around so that I'm lying on the pillows. He undresses as I catch my breath, and I stare as he bares the smooth skin of his back, then turns and gives me a glimpse of the coarse, dark hairs on his chest. His jeans come off, and then his boxers.

I drag my eyes back to his face as he gets back on the bed and kneels between my legs, then rolls on the condom he just took out of his wallet. I cup his cheeks to draw him in for another kiss, languid and soft, and I shiver at the toned, hard lines of his body as he lowers himself down against me, enveloping me. Lloyd groans, low in the back of his throat, as he slides inside me, one of his hands fisting the sheets for a moment. His forehead leans against mine.

"Annalise," he murmurs, and that's when I know.

It means everything to him, too.